Tag Archives: Fun

1.56 Yo-ho-ho and A Shot of Rum

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(The ingredients for spiced rum according to Wood’s Gran’s recipe.)

Practically dancing in place waiting for Orin’s return I couldn’t work out which of the three fates would be worse if we were caught – becoming fodder for the police blotter. Explaining to the police (and Little Ben) what possessed us to bury rubber ducks in an empty field in the first place. Or the horror of calling Aunt Pearl to bail four pirates out of jail at one a.m.

The tree of humiliation bore rich fruit tonight.

Apparently, the Inebriated Three didn’t share my anxiety of capture (while they all still wore their tricorn hats, they currently embodied the philosophy of Yo-ho-ho And A Bottle Of Rum, thus their new nickname). The flasks of spiced rum they insisted on passing around each time we slowed down or stopped bore a portion of the responsibility for their lax attitudes (yet another one, or possibly two, made an appearance in my Orin inspired absence). 

The joys of being the designated getaway driver.

Me (trying for calm): “Time to put that away, guys. We need to get ready to run.”

A scene from a Three Stooges movie ensued while they endeavored to comply with my request. Helpless I stood back and tried not to split a seam at their earnest efforts to simply stand. 

Laney, the first to get up, stood on the tails of Beatrice’s greatcoat. This caused Beatrice to fall over when her ascent to an upright position was unexpectedly arrested. Wood was fine until Laney careened into him when Beatrice yanked her coat out from under Laney’s foot. All the while, trying to maintain radio silence, they pantomimed their displeasure to each other.

When they were upright and moderately stable (and trying to figure out exactly where they’d misplaced their dignity), I turned around to see if Orin had returned. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I discovered him standing inches away from the end of my nose.

Me (aggrieved): “Seriously, are doing that on purpose?”

The peanut gallery gathered behind Orin broke into a chorus of chortles at my demand. And judging by the number of Residents gathered on such short notice the Inebriated Three and I had managed to cause quite a brouhaha this evening. Their questions/comments solidified this idea; Wow you really are dressed as pirates./Did you miss us?/Did you know the police are here?/I’ve never seen Little Ben move so fast./I haven’t had this much fun in forever…. Their comments went on for a while. 

The fact I was at the root of this uproar added to the Resident’s delight – the pirate costumes were just icing on the cake.

Wood: “Morticia are you talking to someone?”

Me (using the spirts they’d drunk in my favor): “Nope.”

Me (speaking to the Residents: keeping my voice low so hopefully the Inebriated Three wouldn’t hear): “Thanks…” 

Orin (cutting in, turning to the Residents): “Here’s the plan. John, Peter, and Stu follow us to the west. Ruby, Sandra, and Iris the same to the east. Alice, you run ahead to the gate and call the all clear – if it is. I’ll lead them on. Everyone else fan out and keep a weather eye for incoming trouble. Ready?”

While Orin relayed orders to the Residents I eyed my friends – Wood looked to be holding his liquor well, Beatrice wove just slightly in place, and Laney was dancing to music only she could hear. Fantastic. The perfect illustration of the influence body mass played in drinking. With a sudden flare of inspiration (or perspiration or both) I knew how to navigate them through the marble maze which stood between us and the gates.

Me: “Laney take my hand, Beatrice you take Laneys, Wood you take Beatrice’s.” 

Laney (in a slurring reworking of a Beatles’ song): “I want to hold Wood’s han-an-and.”

Me (trying to keep it together): “Ok, Wood switch with Beatrice.”

Beatrice: “Why?”

Me: “This way I can lead you through the headstones, and you won’t trip and break your necks.”

Orin (thoughtfully): “Well it has been a while since we’ve had a newcomer….”

Beatrice: “But I want to hold your hand.”

Ignoring both Orin and Beatrice, I lead our chain out from the safety of our hiding spot. With a few initial herks and jerks, we settled into a nice rhythm.

Laney (singing softly): “Following the leader. The leader. The leader. Following the leader where ever she may go. Tee dum. Tee dee…..”

Laney’s love of aliens is only eclipsed by Disney – figures she’d find a fitting song – from Peter Pan no less. 

Why couldn’t our pursuers helpfully tick like the Crocodile? I ejected the analogy from my brain quickly. My heart didn’t care for it one bit since the Crocodile got Captain Hook in the end. Maybe we were one of the Lost Boys? In disguise? Stifling a giggle, I banished the picture of Orin zipping around us like Tinker Bell. 

The Inebriated Three picked up the chorus (softly): “Following the Leader. The Leader…..”

We were a quarter mile away when I heard Alice’s faint all clear call – perhaps sensing my relief – the Fates threw a spanner in the works.

1.55 With Friends Like This…

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An excited squawk from a walkie three rows away sent us scurrying behind one of the larger mausoleums in this section of Nevermore. 

That’d been a near thing. 

Who knew Seth (the newest groundskeeper) could summon that much stealth? Counting off a hundred heartbeats (sounds like a long time, but my heart was beating a brisk tempo at the moment) I slowly eased an eye around the corner, trying to catch even the smallest movement. Despite not seeing a single hint of our pursuer my heart refused to settle down into a normal rhythm.

Me (whispering): “Wood can you see anyone?”

Since no one’s yelling ‘got you’ or ‘their over there’ I will take it as a promising sign. Maybe this time we’d lost them? Hope springs eternal.

Wood (softly): “Nope, nothing.” 

It seems Laney and Beatrice came to the same conclusion, or they were just tired from all the running and/or rum, either way, they’d sunk down to the ground for a rest. Wood joined them, leaving me to keep my eyes peeled for motion amongst the tombstones.

Me (taking a beat to talk to them): “We’ll catch our breath here for a few minutes then make a final push for the Crossroads.”

The Tricornies murmured their agreement and settled into more comfortable sitting positions. Inching around the side of the vault trying to get a better grip on our surroundings, I nearly screamed when a figure stepped out in front of me.

The Figure: “Caretaker, did you hear about the kids running around Nevermore in costumes tonight?”

As my hands were covering my mouth, trying to keep the squealing I was doing on the inside, I couldn’t reply to Orin’s question right away. 

Orin (taking in my current attire – long coat, embroidered vest, linen shirt, bandolier and the dark plume in my tricorn hat): “I think you might have.”

Seems the dip my toes took in the creek during our hasty exit from the farm numbed them to a greater extent than I’d realized. Well, that explained why it hadn’t hurt very much when I’d kicked that rock – I’d chalked it up to wearing boots instead of sneakers (tomorrow’s bruise tally will prove fascinating).

Me (whisper yelling): “Orin! You nearly scared me to death!”

Orin (dismissively): “Don’t worry, no one’s died of that in years! Hey, aren’t there supposed to be more of you?”

Stepping around me he peered around the corner of the crypt and started laughing. Following behind, I glimpsed the three Tricornes as he must have – Beatrice one leg in the air pulling up her sock inside her boot, Wood with his phone aglow and Laney taking a slug from yet another flask (which she whipped behind her back when she saw the whites of my eyes). All of them wearing full pirate regalia. 

Me (hissing at Wood): “Are you trying to get us caught? Put the phone away! Laney! Seriously?”

Doing a one-eighty, I tried to glimpse any activity amongst the shadows, while my ears strained to hear any tell-tale sounds of feet on grass (Orin’s laughing didn’t help my efforts). Stepping back around to the side of the vault I beckoned Orin to follow me.

Me: “Orin. Orin! Please stop laughing! We need to get to the Crossroads, can you help us out?”

His laughter slowly died during my plea, the silence stretching between us while I watched his wide grin slide into a sly smile.

Me (trying to wrangle what little patients I currently possessed): “Okay, what do you want?”

Orin (taking a moment to think): “You know Mazy’s squirrel? Could you make sure it has enough to eat this winter?”

This night just keeps getting better and better.

Me: “Done. Now, will you help?”

Orin: “No problem Caretaker. Let me round up some other Residents.”

On those words, he walked out of sight. Orin might have laughed, but we needed the Resident’s help. We were at the edge of the old original section of Nevermore – after that would be the Crossroad’s burials.

Where we’d have absolutely nothing, except for the night, to hide us from sight. 

1.54 Sideways

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Little Ben: “We’ll make an example of them. I am tired of kids drinking in Nevermore. You go left. Ryan goes right. I’ll take the path. Keep your walkies on, Hank will radio when the police arrive.”

We hardly dared to breathe until the crunching of gravel faded off into the distance. Peeling ourselves off the back of the shed, I peered with one eye around the corner to make sure they were really gone. Convinced we were alone I sunk down into a crouch and closed my eyes – trying in vain to calm my breathing.

Wood (whispering): “Since when did he start doing night patrols?”

Laney (her great coat rustling next to me): “Probably sacked the security guards to save money.”

Beatrice (chuckling): “Maybe the aliens called him.”

Laney (a quiet tink of metal on metal came from next to me): “Ha-ha! What do we do now Phoebe?”

Still gathering my wits after an unanticipated sprint across farmland, woodland, and Nevermore I thanked whatever god was listening that Little Ben never got a good look at us. We owe a lot to the university’s theater department for creating the misconception he was currently laboring under. 

Me (my eyes still closed, my nose detecting cloves and cinnamon): “Come on guys, enough with the spiced rum, it does not increase your stealth stats.”

Not bothering to open my eyes I decided to assume the Tricornies looked my way guiltily and put the flask away (rather than finishing it off then putting it away – which sounded more like them). Though I suppose at this point it couldn’t hurt, they were already two flasks in when we made our escape. 

Laney (first to notice the bobbing spheres of lights swarming on the top of the hill): “Guy’s alien spaceships!”

Me (turning to look at her): “Did you finish an entire flask on your own?”

Laney (pointing): “No. Look, aliens! Heading this way!”

We all stopped for a moment and turned the direction indicated by her index finger – indeed about a half dozen orbs of light were rapidly approaching. Mesmerized by their undulating movement we stilled, my brain trying to process what my eyes told me, the baying is what finally broke the spell.

Me (dropping the post hole digger): “Run!”

Beatrice: “What?”

Me (grabbing the digger out of her hand and tossing it down): “We’ve been seen, RUN!”

Finally catching up with my conclusion the other three followed me in flight (to this day Beatrice remains thrilled she got to test her Grade A Beef Diversion – turns out farm dogs are indeed distracted when prime cuts are tossed their way). 

No, things didn’t go sideways when Wood decided this evening was the perfect opportunity for pirate shenanigans – it was forked up from inception. We’d counted on the late hour and darkness to cover our slightly criminal endeavor which. Turns out it didn’t cut the mustard – someone spotted us about forty-five minutes into the execution of The Brace Affair. I don’t think the MacGregor’s hold with Little Ben’s lax ideas of security. 

Thru sheer luck – for the MacGregor’s, not us – they’d cut us off from Beatrice’s car, so I lead us to familiar ground. Which is why the Tricornies were currently sharing a quiet flask behind a utility shed in Nevermore while I tried to figure a way out.

Pulling out my phone I texted my cousin. 

Me: “Ok guys, lets head to the Crossroads.”

1.53 Who Are You Wearing?

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(My tricorn at sunset…)

Me: “You cannot be serious.”

Wood: “You lost the bet – thus you must wear a costume of my choosing.”

Beatrice and Laney both were staring at the pirate costume Wood held up for inspection. As costumes go, it was pretty nice – gold trimmed tricorne hat, leather bandolier, black velvet long coat – the whole shebang. I even owned a pair of black boots which wouldn’t look too bad with the entire ensemble. 

However, I don’t think this was the wisest sartorial choice for planting casket analogs (i.e., rubber ducks) to demonstrate to my common sense challenged former manager the folly of using the particular patch of ground he’d chosen for a pet cemetery.

Me (grasping at straws): “It is well past Halloween.”

Wood: “No time like the present to settle up on an old debt.”

Three guesses what Wood wanted to trick-or-treat as when we were ten years old.

And the first two don’t count. 

Apparently, I did not appreciate the level of loathing Wood still carried over his Labyrinth inspired Ludo costume he was required to wear the Halloween he lost the bet (I wore a facsimile of Sarah’s dress from the soap bubble scene). 

Wood (a sly smile sliding over his lips): “Or are you a welsher?”

Crap. He was serious. Pulling out the whole Guys and Dolls, Sky Masterson thing. He’d spread it all over town (i.e., my family) that I welshed on the bet if I didn’t wear the pirate costume. Then I would really NEVER hear the end of it.

Me (with an air of resignation): “Hand it over.”

Laney: “Wood, honey, that’s a little mean making her dress up.”

Wood (brightening up): “Don’t worry I got a costume for each of us!”

Laney: “Umm, what?”

Turns out the local university’s theater department, to raise money, rents old costumes out to alumni and they just happened to have four pirate costumes. 

Wood: “We can’t let Morticia have all the fun!” 

Not sure why Laney and Beatrice were shocked. Wood wants everyone to be as happy as he is, and having Fun is a great way to achieve this goal. And tonight he’d decided that a pirate theme would kill two birds with one stone. I smiled at Laney and Beatrice with a touch of mischief in my eye, misery does love company.

Outfits in hand we trooped back up to the Lavender Lady to don our costumes, and with the judicious use of safety pins, the clothes fit us reasonably well. Then Tricornies (wordplay on the tricorn hat and corny – though I suppose if I need to explain the funny, it’s not that funny…) decided they wanted a more authentic piratey look, so they raided Beatrice’s collection of curiosities for beads and baubles to complete their outfits. 

Thankfully “we” all agreed to leave the cutlasses and pistols at home figuring they’d get in the way of our digging. Though flasks of spiced rum were deemed a necessary accessory.

Because who ever heard of a pirate without rum? 

Who indeed. 

Since I lost the bet, Wood was thrilled to remind me, he designated me the Chief Escape Artist or in nonpiratey terms – the designated driver. Which worked for me as I suspected they’d already taken a tipple whilst we were wiggling into our costumes.

They confirmed this suspicion when we exited the Lavender Lady, at eleven thirty at night, and started belting out a cobbled together sea shanty:

“Two feet at sea and none on shore,

A Pirate’s life for me!

Our ships’ named the HMS Pompadour!

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

When we explore we always cause an uproar,

A Pirate’s life for me!

Now we are bound for Nevermore!

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”

I wonder what Ms. Hettie thought of the procession down her back walk.

1.51 Rubber Ducky You’re The One…

Unknown Number: “Tonight’s the night!”

Me: “Wood?”

He must be calling from an exam room phone again.

Wood (excitement oozing across the line): “Meet you in The Map Room in a half hour.”

Me: “But….”

Wood: “The Brace Affair is a go!”

He. Hung. Up. On. Me. 

Well, this bodes…something.

On the plus side executing The Brace Affair might help to relieve the pins and needles I’ve been sitting on while waiting for the Lone Ranger to face his fears. He had four days left on the unspoken timetable. 

On the downside, I’d answered Wood’s call on speakerphone and Mrs. Lebondowsky heard the entire exchange. She will delight in disseminating this piece of news amongst the rest of my regulars at the Center.

Mrs. Lebondowsky (trying for casual): “Hot date dear?”

Me (rolling with it): “Something like that.”

Mrs. Lebondowsky (smiling): “Well don’t give the barn away. Leave him wanting more – you’ll get a second date that way.”

Fortunately, she was my last fare today, and I only had three blocks left before I could drop her off. So I goosed the gas and hoped her advise stopped with that particular tidbit. 

Seems Lady Luck rode with me tonight because Mrs. Lebondowsky went on to regale me about the last real date her Dear Frank took her on in 1965 (it sounded way nicer than any I’d enjoyed recently).

Only fifteen minutes late for Wood’s deadline (and ten bucks richer – Mrs. Lebondowsky tips well), I pulled the Princess up to the back gate of the Lavender Lady’s grounds. This maneuver meant a much shorter walk to the Map Room which significantly reduced my chances of inadvertently running into Ms. Hettie. 

Pushing the gate open, I navigated the six steps and three stairs to the door and entered the redesignated shed. The lovely scent of curry greeted me before my friends got the chance or in fact noticed my arrival.

Me (surprised): “Laney? What are you doing here?”

Laney (turning my way, a wry smile on her face): “Hey. Wood convinced me this would be great Fun.” 

The way she eyed the line of manual post-hole-diggers leaning against the bookshelves made clear her skepticism of her husband’s claim. Wood, entirely oblivious to his wife’s doubts, was currently helping Beatrice divvy up a mountain of rubber ducks into four separate piles. Not wanting to break their focus I decided to help the proceedings along by dishing up the boxes of take-out (which would keep Wood from hoarding the panang and Laney from skimping on her vegetables). When the two duck sorters finished their complicated and esoteric rubber ducky allotment algorithm, they swept each stack into separate sacks. Which allowed me to swoop in and place dinner on the table before they could fill it up with something else.

Wood (surprised when food appeared before him): “Morticia! When did you get here?”

Me (shaking my head and laughing a little): “When the ducks were still in mound position.”

Wood, who’d elected himself Capitan of The Brace Affair, started going over the refined strategy – between mouthfuls. 

Wood (finishing his first bite): “Each of us will have a bag of about thirty-ish rubber ducks. We’ll use the post-hole-diggers to dig up a cylinder of dirt, then we’ll plant a duck and then dump the dirt back on top.” 

Me (taking advantage of Wood’s now full mouth): “Where did the rubber ducks come from? I’ll pay you back for them. (Looking between Wood and Laney)”

Beatrice (waving at Wood to keep chewing, snagged my attention): “Don’t worry about it. I’m donating the ducks I’ve collected from geocaching to the cause.  I needed more space in here anyways.”

Glancing up at the shelves above her head I noticed several large empty vases.

Me (a food coma starting to creep up on me): “Why tonight?”

Laney (faster on the draw than Wood): “The first storm of the season is predicted to hit this weekend. If you want those ducks to rise to the occasion, this is your best shot.”

Wood (now able to chime in): “And the moon is full tonight so we won’t need to use our flashlights as much.”

Beatrice: “I even bought a couple of steaks in case we need to distract some dogs.”

Me: “Really?”

Beatrice: “Works in books. So someone must have tried it out at some point, otherwise, why would it keep appearing in print?”

Laney (laughing): “One minor detail, this is a silly plan, but you promised me a ridiculous amount of Fun…”

A wicked smile lit up Wood’s face. Without a word, he stood up and walked a few paces to where my extra boxes were stacked and pulled several garment bags off the top. Shoving his dinner plate aside he laid them down in front of him.

Wood (unzipping the zipper with a flourish): “Like this.”

1.38 The Dog House

Wood: “Seriously what were you thinking?” 

Me (breathing better now): “Trying to meet you…see the top.”

Right then my stomach, feeling an ally near, decided to let loose a loud protest of its own. The traitor. 

Wood: “Have you eaten?”

Me (trying not to look shifty): “Breakfast.”

Wood stalked over to my pack, flipped it open and retrieved my lunch which he then proceeded to thrust in my direction with a curt, “Eat.”

Feeling it better to follow orders than argue I started eating. While doing so, I tried to figure out how I could shake off Wood and the others and check out the last two sites on the mountain. Bookies would give better odds to Stockard Channing reprising her role of Rizzo than to me shaking Wood off and climbing the rest of Pumpkin Mountain alone.  

Beatrice, trying to break the mood (or divert focus, I shot her a grateful smile) started debating the merits of different spots with Sarah for her geocache. For one bright moment, I thought Beatrice decided on one of the camping sites I hadn’t reached, but they deemed even the unofficial spots entirely too dull. So they (plus Laney who’d they sucked into the debate) huddled around Beatrice’s camera reviewing pictures of potential hiding places (Wood still stood over me glowering). 

In the end, they ruled the perfect place was a pool of water just a hair off the trail, next to a brief but vigorous waterfall. With that decision made (and my lunch demolished) we set off down the mountain with Beatrice leading the way this time. Sarah and Laney following closely behind while still debating different cache spots Beatrice rejected. Wood followed a pace behind slowly warming up to their conversation. Once again I brought up the rear. Only this time I wasn’t alone, Bert and Ernie sensed my habitation of Wood’s doghouse, decided to keep me company. Both had more than a passing familiarity with the institution.

Feeling much better after being watered and fed (and no longer feeling a sharp stabby sensation in my side, lungs, and back) my mind turned back to the cairn conundrum. 

Me (interjecting in a lull): “Beatrice did you take pictures of the last two campsites?”

Sarah (laughing answered first): “Nope we didn’t. They practically shouted ‘here’s the cache’ to anyone passing by. They’d get muggled in a pair of seconds.”

Beatrice (rolling her eyes, pitching in): “She just enjoys using the word muggled instead of tampered. But really, they weren’t proper sites anyways. Strictly bivvies.” 

My utterly blank look expressed my ignorance to her. 

Beatrice: “Bivvie short for bivouac. An improv campsite directly under the stars. The last two spots were barely creases in the rock. They’d keep you from sleeping on the trail, but not much else.” 

Me (nodding): “How about the summit?”

Sarah (handing back Beatrice’s camera to me): “More than enough room for a tiny folk festival, if you don’t mind bruised shins.”

Me (scanning through the photos): “Doesn’t look practical for digging…out a fire pit, too many rocks.” 

Sarah: “You’d need to be careful. I don’t think you can dig more than an inch or two down. There’s enough dirt for wildflowers to grow, but not enough for trees.”

Somehow this started a new debate (I missed the transition) between the three ladies on the weight to comfort ratio one needed to assess when packing for a hike. I fell back processing their intelligence when Wood paused unexpectedly in front of me. I nearly plowed right into his back.

Me: “Hey!”

Wood (a wicked look in his eye): “Morticia, what happened to your pack?” 

Me (starting to shrug it off): “What? Did it tear?”

Wood (resuming his forward locomotion): “No, it weighed a ton this morning – now it doesn’t.”

Me (tap dancing): “I ditched the weight so I could catch up to you guys faster.”

Wood (eyes narrowing): “Really? Then we can pick up the ten pounds of salt when we pass by it again since the shovel’s still in your pack.”

Me (mentally wishing Wood was less observant): “I was pulling your leg this morning, I used water jugs for weight, I just poured it out. Voila! Instant featherweight.”

Wood (slowly nodding his head): “Sure, you poured the weight out. On what?”

Me (sweating): “What do you mean?”

Wood (grinning): “Never mind. Do you want to hear my idea about how to dissuade Little Ben from building the pet cemetery in the wrong spot? I Guarantee it will be Fun!”

Thrilled at the new conversational direction, I listened to The Plan. With elements of the absurd, possibility of arrest, precise timing and rubber ducks – The Brace Affair held up the high standard that the Promise of Fun required. It caused Laney to roll her eyes, Sarah pretended to plug her ears with her fingers and Beatrice to hint she looked great in black – Fun indeed.

The Plan (and its refinement) dominated the rest of the conversation down the mountain. Pausing only once when Beatrice hid her cache and noted the GPS coordinates in a small book, we still cut it a bit fine returning to the hotel. 

Fortunately, ‘Not Sam’ hadn’t loosened the hounds on our trail just yet.

1.6 Squirm

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When Wood’s six foot six frame squirms it signals different things for different people. For his Gran it means he’d bought her another gadget to make her life “easier” – she likes her smart phone, tolerates her smart luggage (a suitcase which follows her around like a puppy) and is plain suspicious of her “home assistant” powered by the internet. Laney eyes him dubiously when he surprises her with a trip – Barcelona, Paris, London, Malmo or a staycation – which heralds pub fare and soccer matches are in her future (she likes soccer just fine, but a romantic walk on Seine would add a nice variety – she thanked me when I pointed this out to him).

For me? This wriggle means Wood’s set me up on a blind date.

Again.

In his defense Wood always does great job in picking interesting, witty and charming men. If you are waiting for the “but” here it is; charming doesn’t mean sincere, witty doesn’t exclude vicious and interesting doesn’t mean classy. Six out of eight of my all time worst evenings come from Wood’s setups (and I am sure I don’t sparkle in my opposition’s memory either). So for the sake of my sanity, our friendship and the lives of the men of these disasters – I made Wood promise never to set me up with any more men of his acquaintance. Which was only extracted after I told him the story of my date with his dapper coworker Sebastian.

Sebastian thoughtfully included a cardio workout component into our date – moving forty-seven boxes of his ex-girlfriend’s possessions down two flights of stairs into a truck (his ex-girlfriend left for parts unknown twenty minutes after we arrived), unloading the truck again and distributing the boxes around her new apartment according to their labels. Sebastian then thoughtfully provided a meal which was also themed to our activity – pizza and beer. He then proceeded to eat the entire pie and drink a six pack in twenty minutes which caused him to curl up like a huge hedgehog in Tiffini’s living room and pass out. He did regale me with anecdotes from his travels, but since we weren’t eating dinner in a little cafe, listening to jazz and drinking fabulous coffee (as he had with Tiffani) it was hard to relate.

Okay, I can laugh about it now, but I absolutely flabbergasted at the time.

While glaring at my friend (who was doing his level best not to make eye contact), I offered up a hasty prayer to any god who would take an interest – hoping against hope – that Wood’s sudden imitation of an eel stemmed from an acrobatic audition he’d set up for us with Cirque du Soliel after dinner. Or perhaps we were interviewing for a place in a prestigious rodeo clown school – they have those right? Maybe we were receiving our armaments for the tri-state laser tag tournament? But his wriggling butt and wringing hands told another tale, “Wood, you promised!”.

His eyes darted towards the front of The Fungus House and apparently found his salvation there since his faced cracked into a wide smile, “Beatrice, over here!”

Following his smile I saw a strawberry blonde in a three piece indigo colored suit beelining in our direction.

Okay, maybe I’m wrong?

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